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"Patti? Hey, Patti?"
    The room is…empty, safe; it looks empty. The phone keeps calling my name and I fumble it to my mouth. "I’m here. Go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow." My thumb kills the phone and I stare at the moonlit room. What the fuck is going on? The room doesn’t answer. Neither does the window. Leaves blow across the sidewalk below. Annabelle Ganz. A demon in a gingham nightdress. Cold, slippery hands. The devil’s wife and mother and…
Stop, Patti
. Me and Richey and Little Gwen.
Enough
. Three of us children lost in hell, too ruined to help ourselves or each other.
    A cab passes slow. The storefront neons are dark; the Northside and its nursery-rhyme life is asleep—butcher, baker, candlestick maker. My hand clenches the curtain and the fabric brushes my cheek. The attic had curtains, but they didn’t move, neither did the moldy ones in the basement. My eyes squeeze shut, but I don’t like what’s there either. Me, Richey, and Little Gwen…three empty shells sitting together, then not; always finding somewhere else to look.
    I want to hide.
    Am I coming to work tomorrow?
I blink back to the present. Why
wouldn’t
I?
     
     
TUESDAY, DAY 2: 6:30 A.M.
     
     
       And five hours later I do.
    From inside Art’s on Ashland I can feel the sun rising behind the building and see the day coming. The sun never quite hits Art’s, except in the early summer; the rest of the year it shines elsewhere. I’ve eaten breakfast here six days a week for seventeen years, preferring the booths to the stools at the cigarette-burned counter. The booths have an equal amount of electrician’s tape and vinyl. Square windows frame the ghetto changing from night-shift gangsters to poor working people trudging to jobs that don’t pay enough. There’s hope in that somewhere and on the better days I find it.
    The door opens. Two older GDs stop just inside, both with jackets. "Older" in gangster parlance is twenty-five and they are, by far, the most dangerous. But Art’s is a ghetto DMZ. Cops and bangers eat here and generally leave one another alone. It’s also the only white-owned restaurant that’s survived the economic spiral.
    Me and the GDs stare. We all know each other by job description; they nod small and so do I. That’s today’s agreement—no shit in here unless they start it. One is from the same set as the two we killed on Monday, the same set that fired first and put my partners in the hospital. He sits facing me with three empty booths between us. His partner lounges with his back to the window. Either one could be here for me or for the toast and coffee.
    Anne brings bacon and eggs and news of her daughter’s separation. She adds coffee left-handed and an opinion that the husband wasn’t Jewish so it’s no big loss. The GD whose hands I can see is dipping silverware in his spotted water glass, a move all regulars make, including me. His partner sneaks a side glance in my direction, then away. He’s medium black with high African cheekbones that catch the harsh light; his cap is spotless and off center; his shoulders are hunched to accommodate the lack of space between his table and him.
    If you saw this setup most places you’d think: breakfast.
    Today, that’s not what my instincts think.
    Until today, I’ve never drawn my pistol in Art’s. Now it’s gripped tight in my lap, but unless I commit to putting it on the table, it won’t be useful. Either GD could have a sawed-off or a TEC-9, and then it won’t matter anyway. I slip a finger inside the trigger guard and hesitate…There’s a certain amount of street pride in showing no fear. Watch a prison movie: Street pride is necessary for survival, even for cops. It’s not that I don’t draw three or four times
every day;
but being empty-handed confident down here is big face, big armor.
    My toast is getting cold. The Gangster Disciple facing me isn’t looking away—not right at me either—but close enough that he can see me move. The